


Worthless

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Cassette, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Cecil feels less than stellar about himself. They are not good days. This is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worthless

Carlos is in the lab, trying to analyze this weird kind of crystallized red dirt that’s been appearing in patches all around town. He says trying, because the dirt is very resistant to leaving its plastic container. Even when Carlos gets a plastic spoon and tries to scoop it out, the dirt somehow ends up right back in where it started.

“You could just _cooperate –_ ” mutters Carlos, and then his phone vibrates, sharp against the Formica counter. It keeps vibrating – it’s a call. From Cecil. Carlos picks it up and answers. “Hello?”

“Carlos?” That is most definitely _not_ Cecil speaking – Carlos would put the gender of the speaker as female and age as around twelve but he’s not terribly sure of either. “Carlos, is this you?”

“Um, yes,” he says. “Who –”

“Carlos, this is Intern Béla. You have to come to the radio station! You have to help!”

“Wh – _why?_ ” Carlos is already screwing the dirt container shut, shoulder pinning his phone to his ear. “What’s going on?” He suddenly remembers that Intern Béla is calling from Cecil’s phone. “Is Cecil hurt?”

“Um – not yet –” and Carlos, lunging towards his keys, hears a distant “AAAARGH” and what sounds like something crashing. “Just get here, please?”

“What do you mean, _not yet?_ ” demands Carlos, and of course _of course_ the line goes dead. Growling, Carlos shoves his phone in his pocket and bursts outside, into the blinding sunlight. _Not yet_ – what the hell was that supposed to mean –

Throwing himself into the Honda, Carlos turns the keys in the ignition and screeches out of the parking lot. God knows Cecil has already been in a number of dangerous situations (the term “re-education” still makes Carlos want to break things), but this is the first time someone else has called Carlos for help. Which begs the question, he realizes, doing forty down the all-but empty street, of whether the danger this time is, in fact, Cecil.

He assumes the Sheriff’s Secret Police listened in on Intern Béla’s phone call, and sure enough when he speeds past a desert camo jeep none of the three helmeted figures in the back do anything to stop him. In fact, he’s fairly sure one of them gives him a thumbs-up.

Today the radio station is on the other side of town, by the library, and as Carlos steps out of the car he can immediately smell the acrid musk of librarians. But other than that all his attention is focused on the station, and as he bounds up the steps to the front door he hears more crashing and a voice that he is fairly sure is Cecil.

“Carlos!” The door is yanked away from under his ready-to-knock fist, and Carlos finds that Intern Béla is a young man with black eyes and sandy hair. “Thank God you’re here –” and he seizes the lapel of Carlos’ labcoat and drags him over the threshold, the door slamming shut behind him. That is most definitely Cecil shouting, although Carlos can’t make out the words over the static.

“What’s going on?” demands Carlos, ripping free of Béla’s grip and striding over to the recording studio. Shadows flicker restlessly behind Station Management’s door, as do the ceiling lights. “Cecil –” and he reaches to open the studio door –

“Wait wait _wait!_ ” Béla seizes Carlos’ arm, stopping him. “ _Carefully._ ”

“Right.” Carlos glares at Béla and his face full of doughy fear before gingerly putting a hand on the door handle. It sparks him with static electricity, which is his first clue.

The second is when he opens the studio door and sees overturned furniture and black lightning and Cecil standing in the middle of the wreckage, snarling diatribes.

“– _worthless pitiful putrescent hypocritical lie –”_

“Cecil?” Carlos takes a cautious step into the studio, aware of Intern Béla hovering anxiously outside the door. The hair on his neck and arms prickles with energy. “Cecil…”

“ _Lies!_ ” screams Cecil, kicking a piece of equipment so hard it breaks with a tinny squeal. He is generating enough electricity and blacklight to power a small computer, and Carlos suddenly understands what Intern Béla meant by “not yet.”

 _Steve Carlsburg must have really hit a nerve this time,_ thinks Carlos, inching forwards. Broken glass clinks under his feet, almost inaudible under the static roar that Cecil is creating. “Cecil, Cecil…”

“ _Worthless!_ ” Cecil roars, blacklight swirling around him. “ _You liar, you fraud, how dare you think you had something to offer this town, how dare you think you had something to say –”_

He seizes the microphone, which is already pulled loose, and hurls it to the floor. His hair is a mess, half-pulled out of its ponytail, and there are red scratch marks on Cecil’s neck and jaw and it suddenly hits Carlos that it’s not Steve Carlsburg Cecil’s shouting about, it’s himself…

“Cecil?” Carlos steps fully into the studio – the air is humming with energy – and shuts the door behind him. “Cecil, it’s – it’s me –”

Cecil whirls around to face him, eyes wide, pupils blown out, teeth bared. Carlos’ heart is pounding but he knows how to remain calm under pressure, and he simply holds a hand out. “It’s okay, Cecil, it’s me –”

If Carlos thought that would calm him down, he is wildly mistaken. Cecil lets out a howl of despair and sweeps everything off his desk into a crashing pile of wreckage.

“Whoa!” Carlos jumps forward and grabs Cecil from behind; it’s difficult to keep a hold on him, what with Cecil’s height and wiry strength, but not for nothing was Carlos on the wrestling team in high school. “Cecil, Cecil, calm down, it’s okay, it’s okay –”

“ – fraud,” snarls Cecil, struggling against Carlos’ grip “– phony, sham, deceiver –”

Every one of those words _hurts_ , but Carlos does not slacken his grip, does not stop saying Cecil’s name into his ear. Cecil bucks his hips backward, _hard,_ and Carlos chokes as the wind is knocked out of him but he still does not let go.

 _“Lies_ ,” growls Cecil, hands gripping the desk like he’s contemplating throwing it. Carlos wraps an arm more securely around his waist and rubs his other hand down Cecil’s forearm, trying to smooth out the bulging tendons, wrapping Cecil’s long fingers – they are bloody and bruised – in his own. Cecil’s bare skin crackles with energy and Carlos is momentarily terrified he will be electrocuted.

“It’s all right,” says Carlos, mastering his voice, keeping it low and even. “It’s all right, Cecil, my Cecil –” did he say that? he didn’t mean to say that “– just calm down –”

Cecil shudders – “ _No,_ ” he growls “– not worth it –”

“Shhh…” Carlos kisses the back of Cecil’s neck, Cecil’s hair tickling his skin, brushing his nose. He thinks the electricity in the air is growing less. “It’s okay, Cecil, it’s all okay…”

Cecil’s fingers dig into the table until the tendons in his hands stand out taught and white. “I’m a fake…”

Carlos has been stabbed before, and that didn’t hurt nearly as much as this does. “No, you’re not… it’s okay…”

“ _Worthless_.”

“Not to me.”

The static crackle in the air ceases, and Carlos is about to breathe out a sigh of relief when Cecil does something nearly as alarming as before – he crumples in Carlos’ arms, knees buckling, taking them both to the floor.

“Cecil!” Carlos’ first thought is he’s fainted, but Cecil pitches forward onto his hands and knees and can clearly support himself. Shifting over to the side, Carlos puts a steadying hand on Cecil’s back. “Cecil – Cecil, look at me, babe –” ( he didn’t mean to say that, but it fits on his tongue like it was molded there) “– what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

Cecil sinks his weight back onto his heels, hands curled limp in his lap like autumn leaves. “I’m a fraud,” he says quietly.

 _No,_ Carlos longs to say, _no, you’re not_ , but he knows simple denial will not solve this. They need to talk it through. “Why?”

“Because – you heard the tapes.” Cecil slumps helplessly against Carlos’ hand. “I don’t remember any of that. Whoever that bright young voice was, so eager and full of hope to replace Leonard – that’s not me.” His battered fingers clench into fists. “That’s not me! I’ve usurped the place of whoever that was, I’m some imposter pretending to be Cecil Palmer, for all we know _I_ could be that flickering in the mirror, what right do I even have, I’m a thief, _false –_ ”

His voice climbs towards hysteria again and Carlos pulls him close, half-cradling him against his shoulder. Cecil makes a weird sort of snarling sob and clings to Carlos, his legs folded like grasshopper limbs. He is trembling all over and Carlos brushes a comforting thumb at the base of Cecil’s neck.

“How do you know?” asks Carlos quietly.

“What?”

“What evidence do you have?”

“I don’t need _evidence_ ,” growls Cecil. “I _know –_ ”

“Cecil, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you always need evidence.” Carlos shifts so he’s not sitting on his ankles, puts his free hand on Cecil’s knee. “If you don’t have any proof, how do you know what you’re saying is true?”

“I just _do_.”

“Cecil…” Carlos is unprepared for the sweet throb of almost-pity that hits him. “You know why scientists rely so much on evidence? So that our biases don’t influence our understanding of events.” He pauses, adds softly, “Are you biased, Cecil?”

Cecil bows his head and hunches his shoulders. _Oh_ , thinks Carlos. _I’m sorry,_ and he strains his neck to kiss Cecil on the head.

But Cecil flinches away from the moment, hands curled tight. “No,” he mutters.

“No?” This, more than anything, causes worry to curl cold inside Carlos’ stomach. This is _Cecil_ , Cecil who makes puppy eyes for kisses, Cecil who cannot be in the same room as Carlos without draping himself all over him, Cecil who curls around Carlos at night like the universe depends on them keeping as much physical contact as possible. “What is it?”

He is a reporter; he has to tell the truth. “ ‘M not worth it.”

“Not worth – _not worth it?_ ” Carlos grips Cecil’s shoulder perhaps a little tighter than he should have as he rises onto his knees, trying to meet Cecil’s eyes. “Cecil, look at me. What do you mean, _not worth it_?”

Cecil looks away like a petulant child but Carlos will not give up so easily; he takes Cecil’s face in his hands so he is forced to look at him. He no longer looks wild or on edge. Instead, there is a bleak, despairing cast to the lines of his face that Carlos likes even less. “What is it?” says Carlos. “Tell me.”

“I mean, what does it matter, _really_ ,” says Cecil. “We are all carved out of the same elements, so what does it matter –”

“Oh, no no no no no. Do not get philosophical with me, Cecil, not right now.” Carlos looks Cecil right in the eyes. “You are answering the question.”

Cecil glares at him, but it’s not frightening, it’s sad. “I’m not worth it.”

“You said that. Why not?”

“Because –” Cecil growls in frustration, his skin cool and rough under Carlos’ hands. “What have I done? Why am I special? I’m _nothing_.”

“No, you’re not.” Carlos feels the truth of this deep in his bones and he holds tighter to Cecil for emphasis. “Cecil, take this from someone who is used to looking at the world from an empiric point of view – you are not nothing.”

“But what’s the _point_ of me?”

“The point? Cecil…” Carlos sinks his fingers into the hair on the back of Cecil’s head, strokes his thumbs over Cecil’s cheekbones. “Cecil, you don’t need a point. You just _are_.”

“No, that’s just it!” Cecil shivers, knots his hands in the lapels of Carlos’ labcoat. “I don’t even know who I am! And what I do know is – is faulty, is _pathetic –_ ”

“Cecil, no –”

“I mean, what do I do but talk talk talk as if my words meant something, as if they _mattered_ , as if anyone out there cared, and when the time comes for me to take action I simply _narrate_ while others braver than me risk their lives –”

There’s enough vitriol in his voice that he could be talking about Steve Carlsburg except he’s not, and instead of anger it’s mixed with despair. Carlos swallows, because he’s suddenly not sure what to say.

“Not – not all the time,” he manages. “Remember the portal in the station? Remember the subway? You took action. You investigated.”

“And a great deal of good that did,” growls Cecil. “Besides, I still couldn’t, not when – not when it was the most important –”

The look he is giving Carlos is desperation personified and Carlos knows he is talking about that incident in the bowling alley. “That was months ago…”

“You could have _died_ ,” he snarls, feverish. “You could have died, and I would have just sat by and watched –”

“Cecil, Cecil, _stop_ ,” says Carlos, and he kisses Cecil’s forehead. Cecil tries to pull away, which makes Carlos hold on to the kiss that much longer. “You’re not worthless, okay? Especially not to me.”

“ _Wh –_ ”

“I’ll tell you why.” Carlos puts his thumbs over Cecil’s mouth; Cecil stares at him with wide pink eyes. “Because you care so much, about so many things. Because you see beauty in the smallest or most common of places, and because you don’t let disaster phase you. Because you get ridiculously excited about cats. Because you’re beautiful. Because you actually have three  pairs of furry pants. And because, my Cecil, you are a fascinating, ingenious, artistic, wonderful man, and if you deny this I will get on that radio and broadcast this to the entire town.”

The corner of Cecil’s mouth quirks in the tiniest of smiles. “That actually sounds like a tempting possibility,” he murmurs.

“Don’t you dare.” Carlos kisses Cecil on the nose, and then on the lips. Cecil doesn’t lean into it, but at least he doesn’t pull away either. “Just – next time you feel like this, let me know, okay?” Carlos glances around at the glass and metal wreckage surrounding them. “Before you start destroying things.”

Cecil chuckles ruefully, and then he lurches forward and hugs Carlos, face buried in his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around him. Sighing, Carlos holds him close and gently strokes the disheveled mess of Cecil’s hair.

“Thank you,” Cecil says, voice muffled.

Carlos chuckles and kisses his ear. “You’re welcome.”

“Beautiful, perfect Carlos…”

“Shh.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”


End file.
